


septicemia

by brorotica



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Brothers, Gen, Gen Fic, Infection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-20
Updated: 2012-06-20
Packaged: 2017-11-08 04:02:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brorotica/pseuds/brorotica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean gets brutally attacked at a bar by an unknown creature. The wound gets infected quickly, and Dean starts to die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	septicemia

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt for angst_bingo. Strong language throughout. Some derogatory terms. Descriptions of infected wounds. The prompt was septicemia/infected wounds.

The guy is a little taller than Dean, skinny and weird-looking in a way he can't quite get over. His hair is dark brown, eyes a sort of pale blue that lent itself to a look of blindness, and he keeps glancing down the bar at the Winchester brothers, gaze focusing on Sam. Dean, who's fought monsters straight out of horror movies, finds this guy a hell of a lot creepier than anything else he's ever run into. "That guy's staring at you," Dean mutters, and Sam starts to twist around in his seat before Dean grabs his arm. "Don't fucking look, man. That's like teenage girl one-oh-one."

"Well, I'm not a teenage girl so forgive me for breaking that cardinal rule." Sam rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his beer, finishing it off. The moment he sets the empty bottle down on the counter, the bartender clears it off and sets down another. Sam cocks an eyebrow. "I didn't order that."

"Compliments of that dude over there," the bartender says, and he sounds like he's had to quote that line quite a few times in his lifetime. Sam doesn't get why he feels like he needs to- he has no movie expectations of this guy- but he turns around nonetheless to find Mr. Blue Eyes staring at him intently. He waves and Sam sort of nods back before twisting back around and staring at Dean.

"I know, right?" Dean asks, and Sam shudders. "It's a shame he isn't Brad Pitt or something."

"Maybe for you. For me it's a shame he isn't a girl."

"Guys aren't so bad."

"Dean, I'm straight."

"So am I," Dean says, winking, and Sam sighs before looking back at his beer. "You gotta drink it."

"He'll take it as a sign of consent."

"No, he won't. He's creepy, not an idiot."

Sam twists the top off the beer and takes a swig, teeth clicking against the bottle, and he's no sooner set it down then the guy is in the stool beside him, looking eager. It isn't a look that particularly suits him. "Hey there."

"Oh my god," Sam breathes out before turning to look at him, an uneasy smile playing across his lips. "Hello. Thanks, um... thanks for the drink."

"You look lonely tonight."

Dean makes an indignant noise. "Um, fuck you, I'm right here."

The creep leans past Sam a little in order to look at Dean, expression unimpressed. "Oh, sorry, are you two together?"

"What? No, I'm his brother."

"Then I don't see why you matter," the guy says, turning his attention back to Sam. "You have beautiful hair."

"Oh."

"And nice lips."

"Look, um..." Sam swallows, uncomfortable. "I'm really, really flattered, and I'm sure you'll find a good guy, but I'm not gay and I'm not really interested in having a one night stand."

"If you close your eyes it'll be practically the same." The guy slides his hand over Sam's thigh and Sam shudders, immediately grabbing his wrist. Apparently it's the wrong move to make because the man cusses under his breath and leans forward, centimeters from Sam's face. "You like it rough?"

"Okay, that's enough," Dean says, grabbing Sam's shoulder. He finishes off his Scotch and slams the drink back down on the counter. "Sammy, let's go."

"He's not going anywhere." Dean starts to say something along the lines of 'oh, who's gonna stop me?' when he looks back at the guy and discovers that the misshapen quality of his face has become more pronounced, his teeth elongating and his way too blue eyes becoming nearly white.

"You're fucking kidding," Dean mutters, Sam immediately reaching for his knife as Dean's hand goes to his gun. The guy doesn't wait for him to do so, though, lunging forward and tackling Dean to the ground. Dean's pistol goes clattering across the ground and he brings his arms up immediately to protect his face, Sam grabbing the guy and attempting to yank him off. The man's teeth- which are about two inches long now and curved- dig into Dean's forearm and he yells, bringing his other arm around in order to hit the guy in the face as hard as he possibly can.

It doesn't loosen his grip at all and Dean's beginning to suspect that this guy shares more than a few characteristics with a fucking piranha, because he can feel the teeth grating along his bone. The sensation is unsettling, the gorge rising in Dean's throat, and while he can handle pain he can't handle the idea of someone biting a massive chunk out of his arm.

"Sammy, get my gun!"

Sam immediately obliges, letting go of the creature and running over to where Dean's gun stopped. All activity in the bar has ceased by now, the patrons watching in absolute horror, and it doesn't take Sam long to make sure the gun is loaded before turning around and firing off a shot. It grazes the monster's shoulder, Dean crying out as the bullet buries in the floor beside his head, and Sam sprints back over to his brother, pressing the pistol to the back of the creature's head and pulling the trigger. Blood and brains spray all over Dean's face and chest, but the thing relaxes its grip on his arm and Dean forces its jaw to unclench, yanking his mangled arm out of the thing's vice-like grip and immediately looking at his brother before glancing at the other bar patrons.

Some of them have their cells out and they have only a limited amount of time before the cops show up, and they definitely don't want to be here while their names are still top ten on the FBI's Most Wanted list. "We gotta go," Dean hisses, and Sam looks down at his would-be suitor, whose face has gone back to normal.

"What about him?"

"We can't do shit with him," Dean says, grabbing Sam's hand with his uninjured arm. The injured one is horribly bloody, puncture wounds all along it and a huge chunk of flesh missing from his forearm, but Dean doesn't have time to concentrate on the pain right now. "We don't even know what he is. Sammy, we gotta get out of here."

"What if it comes back to life?" Sam asks, and his tone is reprehensible. Dean knows it all too well, shooting his brother a dirty look before hooking his arms underneath the man's legs and dragging him forward. His arm is fucking killing him but Sam grabs the body by the armpits and the Winchesters head towards the door, a few people moving in their way.

Sam shoulders them out of the way and they manage to get to the Impala relatively easily, tossing the body in the trunk. Sam slides in the driver's side and Dean doesn't object, throwing himself into the passenger seat. "Just fucking go. We've stolen a body on top of killing a guy, Sammy."

"It's okay," Sam says, shoving the key into the ignition and starting the engine. They tear out of the parking lot as quickly as they can, managing to get a mile away before Sam decides it's all right to slow down. "Dean, is your arm okay?"

"Um, no." Dean has his shirt pressed to the gaping wound, crimson soaking through the gray fabric. "It won't fucking stop bleeding, Sam."

"Should I pull over?"

"Hell no, man, we're like a hundred miles into redneck territory. They're gonna be after us with trucks and shotguns soon enough."

"That's such a stereotype."

"No, a stereotype is my arm bleeding all over our fucking car, Sam!"

Sam frowns, glancing over at his brother. "That doesn't make sense."

"Forgive me for not making sense while losing like fifteen gallons of blood."

"I'm pulling over." Sam veered off the road, killing the engine on the shoulder and leaning over to take Dean's hand. "Oh my god, Dean, this looks absolutely horrible."

"Wow, thanks, Doctor Sexy. I needed you to tell me that."

"I think we need to go to the hospital," Sam says lowly, because he knows how Dean regards hospitals- with a strong dose of disdain mixed with fear- but he also knows that he can't deal with this on his own. This isn't a stitch-it-up wound, something he can take care of with a first aid kit and a needle. This requires someone who has more than a little emergency medical training.

"Yeah, let's go to a hospital in the same county where we just shot and killed a guy," Dean says rather sharply, pulling his arm away from Sam and tugging the shirt off the wound gingerly. "It's stopped bleeding. I'll be fine."

Sam frowns but pulls back onto the road nonetheless, hoping they can find somewhere to stop for the night. They get to a hotel around three in the morning, Sam nearly asleep at the wheel and Dean paler than Sam's seen him in years but still conscious, humming off-key along to a Van Halen song. "This place looks decent enough," Dean says as they pull into the parking lot of a motel that looks like the kind of place where hookers like to congregate. They check in and Sam helps Dean into the room, closing the door behind them. They can deal with piranha mouth in the morning. Right now, Dean's arm needs to be cleaned off.

They hole up in the tiny bathroom of the room, Dean sitting on the counter with Sam standing in between his legs and attempting to peel the shirt off the cut. It's dried on there but if it hurts to be pulled off- which it undoubtedly does- Dean doesn't say anything, preferring to clench his teeth and keep quiet. Once the shirt is off, Sam starts trying to clean the cut off, but every time he gets close to seeing what it actually looks like with no dried blood stuck to it, it starts to bleed again. Eventually, he has to give up. "That thing must've had some kind of enzyme in its spit," Sam says matter-of-factly, and Dean sighs, pressing his fingers against the wound. It oozes pink plasma, the stuff dripping off his arm.

"So what do we do?" he asks, and Sam shrugs. He dabs at the wound again before taping a few pieces of gauze over it and frowning.

"We'll have to see if it's any better when we get up. Maybe if it scabs over I can look at it more closely and make sure that you're not going to end up getting infected from it."

Dean's silent for a moment before rubbing his fingers against the gauze and slipping off the counter. "We don't know what that thing was, do we?" he asks as he squeezes past Sam and heads back into the main part of the motel room.

"No," Sam says, haphazardly sliding things back into their first aid kit. "We can call Bobby later and see if he has any clue. I don't think it's from around here."

“Yeah, I can’t imagine Texans hording men who look like they’ve had a few too many rounds with alligator gar.” Sam gives him a perplexed look and Dean shrugs, flopping down on his bed. “Sometimes Animal Planet is the only thing on TV.”

“You poor thing,” Sam says, but he’s getting more and more tired by the moment, following his brother’s example and laying down on the bed provided for him. He doesn't really want to go to sleep, worry for Dean kind of making him feel like he's obligated to stay up, even though his brother is nearly asleep. "Are you gonna be okay?" he asks, voice rather low. He doesn't want to sound super girly in asking, but he's ridiculously concerned about this. Bulletholes and knife wounds are one thing, but cuts left by some monster they don't even know the name of seems like a death sentence.

"I'll be fine," Dean murmurs, rolling on his side and watching Sam silently for a moment. "Come on, Sammy, it's just a flesh wound."

"Don't you even."

Dean grins and yanks a blanket up over him, curling up slightly. "Go to sleep. Everything's totally okay."

Sam rolls his eyes but obliges, turning off the lamp on the bedside table and rolling onto his back. He manages to ignore the feeling of dread in his gut. He's scared for Dean, but there's nothing he can do right now without going against Dean's consent. And he seriously doesn't want to have to do that. By the time he falls asleep, however, his brother's wound is just a sort of buzzing in the back of his mind.

Sam wakes up in the morning to Dean cussing at the top of his lungs. "Oh my fucking god," Dean says, and Sam wakes with a start. "Oh my god."

"Dean, what's wrong?" Sam manages, still a little groggy as he struggles into a sitting position and looks at his brother. "Oh, god," he hisses, immediately crossing the space between their two beds in order to grab Dean's hand. Dean's arm is mottled with a myriad of bruises and Sam is almost afraid to pull the bandage off, sliding a finger underneath the tape keeping it attached to his brother's skin and tugging the gauze off slowly. "Holy shit," he half-whispers when he catches sight of the wound.

Dean's arm is a network of half-scabbed wounds, blood crusted on his skin and his flesh a sort of marbled purple-blue-yellow. The cuts, though... they're fucking disgusting, inflamed red and somewhat yellow in appearance. They're obviously infected but there's no way they could have reached that state overnight, especially not a state as bad as this. "We have to go to the hospital," Sam says slowly, and Dean yanks his arm out of Sam's grasp.

"I can take care of it."

"How?" Sam asks, indignant, and Dean gets up off the bed. The difference between his injured arm and the other one is absolutely striking. Sam feels a little nauseous. "Dean, we have got to get to a hospital."

"No! Sam, the last time we were at a hospital, Dad died. I'm not going back in there unless my fucking intestines are coming out. I can take care of this."

"You're not a doctor!"

"I never fucking said I was," Dean hisses, grabbing their first aid kit and wincing. It's clearly a chore just to lift things with his arm in its current state. "I know how to do this, though. Dad had an infection once and we didn't have to go to the hospital."

"Well bully for you, but that isn't going to work here."

Dean frowned at Sam before picking up the knife he kept under his pillow and shooting his brother a look. "Are you going to help me or not?"

"Depends on what you think you're doing with that knife."

"We have to drain the pus," Dean says, ignoring the way Sam cringes and walking into the bathroom. Sam really doesn't want any part in this. He doesn't have a weak stomach by any means, but he really doesn't want to fucking deal with this right now. He follows his brother dutifully, however, kneeling next to Dean beside the bathtub. Dean is running hot water and he glances at Sam before handing him a plastic cup the motel provided for rinsing after brushing teeth. Sam's pretty sure they didn't have this in mind when they restocked the room.

"Do you know what you need to do?" Dean asks Sam, holding his arm over the bathtub and keeping the knife in his other hand.

"No," Sam says honestly. He really doesn't want to know or have to do this, but Dean seems pretty damn set on making sure it happens and Sam can't argue with that, not really. Plus, they can't really just leave this infection alone. Doing so would be absolutely stupid. Then again, this is probably pretty stupid, too.

"I'm going to cut the wound back open. It'll drain the pus. But I'm gonna need you to pour hot water over it. It's gonna take a while to clean it out completely."

"You're going to cut yourself again?" Sam didn't get back into hunting so he could watch his older brother slice himself open in the dingy bathroom of some motel with a stupid pun for a name. "Dean, this is really fucking stupid."

"It'll work." Dean sounds confident enough, glancing over at his brother. "Are you ready?" Sam swallows and nods, Dean giving him a small smile before pressing the tip of the knife against the part of the wound that looks most infected. He cuts along almost the entire length of the gash, Sam watching with some disgust before Dean sets the knife down and presses his fingers against the side of the wound. Immediately pus gushes out and Sam pours a cup of water over the cut, trying not to look.

They repeat this a few times- the cutting and the pressing and the washing- until finally the swelling of the wound has gone down and the water runs sort of pink. Dean's still bleeding but there's no longer pus running out and he looks a little bit better, looking over the wound and nodding. "Okay," he mutters, leaning back on his legs. "That should be good. Can you hand me a towel?"

Sam nods and Dean shuts off the water, taking the towel his brother proffers to him and patting the wound dry. Sam bandages it back up, looking a little sickened, but he smiles once there's a clean piece of gauze taped across the cut. "Does it feel any better?"

"Yeah. It doesn't feel as tense," Dean says, flexing the fingers of the injured arm and licking his teeth. "We should take a few minutes today and figure out what we're doing." He gets up off the ground, edging past his brother into the main part of the motel room. "I want to make sure that that thing is actually dead and he hasn't caused any lasting damage outside of this." He shook his arm a little aggressively at Sam, immediately regretting it as he winced.

"We can make it to Bobby's by tonight, maybe." Sam calculates the miles in his head. They're in the panhandle of Texas, only about a hundred miles from the border, but with some creative driving they can get to Bobby's by midnight or so, as long as they're lucky. "I mean, if you think you're up for it. I don't want you to try to drive with your arm the way it is."

"It's just a bite wound. It's happened before. As long as I don't start morphing into a piranha guy then I think we'll be okay." Dean frowns and it's immediately apparent to Sam that he hasn't actually considered the implications of that idea. "You don't that's going to actually happen, do you?"

"Probably not," Sam muses. "I think if that was happening we'd have heard of them a long time before now, you know?"

"Yeah, I guess so." Dean shrugs, tugging on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. It doesn't cover the gauze on his arm, or the network of burst veins that's created a definitely distinctive pattern around his wound, but he doesn't seem to care and Sam isn't going to push the issue. They're ready to leave in another half hour, Dean rubbing at his arm constantly in that time, and when Sam gives him a dark look as they head out to the Impala, Dean frowns. "It's itchy."

"That means it's healing," Sam says reassuringly, and the two of them toss their bags into the backseat before Dean pops the trunk and Sam goes to check them out at the front office. The guy is still in there and still looks pretty dead, although he hasn't started to decay and there's no rotting corpse smell around him. Maybe it's something in his blood that prevents him from rotting. Dean's seen shit on Animal Planet that plays out to that effect.

"Here's hoping he doesn't wake up in the middle of the freeway," Dean says, closing the trunk again and looking at his brother. He gets in the passenger seat without being told; he might hate being shotgun, but he's not stupid, and driving with his arm the way it is is essentially a death sentence in and of itself. "Let's hit the road, Sammy."

Sam nods, making sure the trunk is locked just in case before climbing in the car and starting the engine. Texas isn't exactly the most exciting place to drive in, but at least the roads are flat and relatively smooth and Dean's arm avoids undue jostling. It still hurts like hell, though, in a way he can't really ignore, and he spends most of the drive attempting to assuage the pain, an endeavor helped along by the bottle of whiskey he keeps around for special occasions such as the one he's caught up in now. This is special in the sense that it's never happened to him, not in the fact that he currently feels like the monster from Alien has decided to nest in his forearm.

They drive for hours and hours before they finally pull up to Bobby's house, parking in the dirt. It's after midnight but the lights are on in Bobby's place and the Winchesters glance at one another before getting out and making their way up to the door, Dean still clutching his arm. The wound feels swollen again, the same way it did that morning, and Dean really doesn't want to have to cut it open again. That shit is not an experience he willingly wants to relive. Dean waits impatiently for Bobby to open his door, and when he finally does, looking bleary-eyed and slightly sloshed, he looks between the Winchesters and frowns. "What're you two doin' here?"

"We found a monster," Dean says, walking into the house and heading straight to the bathroom. Bobby gives him a bewildered look before Sam sighs and sits down at the table, starting to tell Bobby exactly what happened the night before.

Dean can hear his brother speaking in the other room but doesn't bother concentrating on his voice. He knows the story- he was there- so he doesn't need Sam's recap. He does need to relieve some of the pressure on his arm, though. He rips off the gauze and the sight is absolutely horrific, ten times worse than it was this morning. It looks like a massive spider bite, an angry red centered with what looks like a massive abscess, and Dean feels like he's about to be sick, sinking against Bobby's medicine cabinet and trying to figure out what to do.

Hospitals are bad news for the Winchesters. They have been for years- monsters like to hang out at hospitals and feed on the dying- and Dean doesn't want to go into one with the thing on his arm and risk never leaving. He presses the tip of his knife into the abscess and a rush of yellowish red pus comes spilling out without him even having to do anything. Dean gasps in ill-disguised pain, tilting his head back against the cupboard and pressing a wad of toilet paper to the wound. At least it doesn't feel ready to burst anymore. He wants it to fucking heal already. It hurts like hell and he thinks he's about ten seconds from puking at the sight of it.

Cuts have never bothered him- he's made a living out of killing things, so this should be nothing- but he wants to be sick at this thing on his arm. It looks like something is eating him from the inside out. The wound is definitely infected. Blood poisoning and gangrene spring to mind and Dean shudders, getting to his feet and walking into the kitchen, his makeshift compress still pressed to the wound. He's beginning to feel the blood on his fingers, however. "We gotta get to an ER," Dean says slowly, and Bobby and Sam both look at him. Bobby doesn't attempt to hide his disgust.

"Shit, boy,that looks worse than what Sam told me."

"It is."

Bobby frowns but Sam is on his feet in a split second, walking over to Dean and pulling the mess of toilet paper away from his arm. There's no getting around the fact that it looks like something has chewed through Dean's skin, and that the infection has spread so much faster than it reasonably should have. He glances back at Bobby, who immediately springs into action. "Sam, get your brother to the hospital. Take my truck. The thing that bit Dean is still in the trunk of the car, right?" Sam nods briefly and Bobby looks back at Dean. "I'll see if I can figure out what the hell it is and call you two. Right now, though, you need to get that wound taken care of."

Dean looks momentarily apprehensive but a jolt of pain in his arm leaves him feeling sick to his stomach and he nods, leaning against Sam slightly and looking back down at his arm. It's getting worse every passing moment, and Dean can practically see the changes, the veins in his arm turning darker, small capillaries beginning to be obvious underneath the skin. "We gotta move," Sam says, grabbing Dean's hand, and it hurts like hell but he keeps his mouth shut. He's starting to get lightheaded. He's sweating, also, and Sam takes a moment to press the back of his free hand to his brother's forehead.

Dean's burning up and Sam's beginning to freak out. This is blood poisoning, plain and simple, and if they don't get help soon... with the rate this thing is progressing, Dean will be dead by the time the sun comes up. "Let's go," Sam says, shooting Bobby a worried look before pulling his brother towards the door. He gets Dean in the passenger seat of Bobby's truck, the keys stuck in the glovebox, and Sam starts the car before haphazardly pulling out onto the main road, intent on getting Dean to the nearest hospital at all costs.

"I can't breathe," Dean says after they've gotten a short ways, his breaths coming in short, tight gasps as he struggles to continue sitting upright. This is going way too quickly, leaving him dizzy and more than a little ill, and he's sure he's dying. He's felt this feeling before, the darkness creeping in on the sides of his vision and the sensation of a vice clasping around his soul. He's dying in the front seat of a pickup truck Bobby's had since Dean and Sam were little kids, with his brother nearly crying in the seat beside him.

He really doesn't want to die this way.

He slumps against the window and Sam looks over at him, speaking in a voice he can't really keep the panic out of. "Dean? Dean, you can't go to sleep now. You gotta stay awake."

"I'm fine, Sammy," Dean murmurs, his voice low. He feels like his head is on fire, his heart trying to burst out of his chest. This is not how he wants to go out, dead at the hands of a monster he doesn't even know the fucking name of.

Sam's got to keep his eyes on the road. He can't give up now. They have some time left, even though it seems as though weeks of illness have transpired in a mirror twenty-four hours. He just wants to know what that thing was, if they can even try to counteract what it did to Dean and if this is actually a normal wound infection or something a hundred times worse, some kind of flesh-eating enzyme the thing stuck in his brother. Sam can't deal with not having Dean. The coma was bad enough. This... this is horrific. This time around he can see Dean dying beside him, hear how hard it is for him to breathe and how badly he's struggling. He glances over at his brother, Dean clutching at his wounded arm with his eyes clenched shut, and Sam reaches over to Dean and takes his hand. "It's gonna be okay."

"I wanna believe you, Sam," Dean murmurs, but it's clear he doesn't. "I think I'm dying. It's just a matter of time before there's a reaper in our backseat." Vaguely, through the fog taking over his mind, he hopes it's Tessa. It wouldn't be too terrible to die if she was the one involved with grabbing his soul.

"Don't say that," Sam says sharply. They're at the town's limits now, and Sam pushes the speed as far as he can before tearing into the parking lot of the hospital's ER. It isn't exactly the most technologically advanced hospital in the history of the world but it'll have to do for now, Sam parking as fast as he can and clambering out of the car. He heads around to the passenger side and opens the door, Dean nearly falling out onto the ground before Sam manages to get a hold of him, lifting his brother as best he can and shutting the door before heading towards the ER. Dean holds onto him tightly and Sam can feel the blood soaking through his shirt, trying not to concentrate on it. Dean's lost way too much blood, and that, on top of the blood poisoning, is what scares Sam the most.

They push into the ER and the nurse behind the counter looks up at them, eyes widening at Dean's state. "Oh, my god," she says, hitting a button on the desk, and a few other nurses come out after a moment or so, the three of them helping Sam to get Dean back into the ER and into a bed. Sam wants to stay, wants to make sure that Dean is at least a little bit okay, but a nurse makes him leave and Sam is regaled to sitting in the waiting room, his heart racing.

He just lost his dad.

He can't lose Dean.

It feels like hours before he gets any news, but it doesn't come from the hospital. Sam's phone buzzes in his pocket and he tugs it out, answering rather hoarsely. He's too numb to cry, but he still feels absolutely sick. "Bobby?"

"How's Dean?"

Sam frowns, leaning over and pressing his palm to his forehead. "They haven't told me anything. He's been in the ER since we got here, Bobby, and they aren't talking to me. I don't even know if he's still alive."

"They'd have told you that much, at least." Bobby pauses for a moment and Sam hopes that maybe he has an answer, maybe there's some cure to this or some solution, some plant he can find or some stupid spell he can do that will fix his brother. He doesn't want to let Dean die, not like this. "I don't know what it is," Bobby says, and Sam lets out a hoarse sob.

This can't be happening.

"I talked to Rufus," Bobby continues. "I've asked everyone I could think of if they can think of what it was and no one seems to know. I wish I could tell you more."

"Is he going to die?"

"I don't know. He could. But hopefully you got to the hospital in time. I'm sorry, Sam."

"It's not your fault," Sam says, somehow managing not to cry. He glances up when a nurse comes out of the ER, eyes widening. The guy gestures to him and Sam exhales. "Bobby, I gotta go. I'll call you back soon."

"Okay."

Sam hangs up and gets to his feet, going over to the nurse, who looks at him a little uncertainly. "Your brother's still alive," the man says, and Sam bites his lower lip. He can sense a 'but' coming. "We've moved him to the ICU. That cut on his arm was nasty and we don't know how well the antibiotics will do with him. But we don't have to amputate yet, and we got the blood poisoning under control. We're going to have to keep him in ICU for a few days to make sure he doesn't get gangrene."

"Is there still a risk of that?" Sam asks, but he knows the answer before the question even leaves his mouth. The man nods and Sam swallows, trying not to panic. Everything's okay right now. Dean isn't dead. There's still hope. Maybe there's still something he can do... he doesn't have the benefit of a healing minister this time around, but he can do something. "Can I see him?"

"Um, yeah... come with me, okay?" The nurse leads Sam to a back elevator, which takes them straight to the ICU. Dean's in a way-too sterile room near the front of the ICU, hooked up to several IVs and a respirator, and Sam looks at his brother quietly before taking a seat beside the bed. "He's still asleep right now," the nurse says, and Sam nods. "Just call if you need anything."

The moment the man is gone, Sam takes Dean's hand. He's still burning up but not quite as much as before, which is something of a relief. Sam swallows and presses his mouth to his brother's fingers, leaning over his bed. His chest almost aches with the knowledge that they aren't completely out of the woods yet. Right now, though, with Dean splayed out on the bed and looking more asleep than anything, his arm seemingly better than it was when they first got to the hospital... Sam can't worry too much. It's going to be okay.

It has to be.


End file.
